


Ghosting

by amalenchan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curses, Gen, Marauders, a bit of a mystery but also just genuine fun, bit of made up magic and history, eastern european wizarding families, self insert time lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:18:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalenchan/pseuds/amalenchan
Summary: Having lost another member of his family to a curse afflicting his bloodline for more than ten generations, Yakov finds himself being sent to Hogwarts, where his mother hopes he'll be safe. But all is not as it seems as Yakov finds that he isn't the first to be sent away to faraway places. As he digs deeper, Yakov realizes he has never felt more afraid of what his existence means, how the curse came to be, what it takes to break it, and what he'll have to lose to make sure their debt is paid.





	1. Green-Clad Professor

**Author's Note:**

> Hello i am back after months away. If anyone is here after seeing i havent updated my naruto . fic i am SORRY it sucks and i hate it. but i will finish it one day. I swear it. Anyways please enjoy this fic i wrote based off my ideal self. Have fun! and dont expect too much i have severe depression and a full time job.
> 
> Also this was cowritten with my friend, tho I dont think their character is a self insert :^) Three cheers for friends who make google docs and write about OC's and self inserts together!!!

_ Yakov _

Walking through the Great Hall, Yakov tried to quench the nerves rising at the sight of the sorting hat, sitting in all its rumpled glory on a stool. All around them, students chattered excitedly, some whispering into the ears of their neighbors, others blatantly pointing at family or friends walking in front of him. Try as he might, Yakov just couldn’t force himself to keep a brave face. Cold sweat formed on his forehead, probably giving his already pale appearance a ghostly look. The small group of first years reached the front, stopping when the green-clad professor told them to. Dumbledore stood and spoke, though Yakov couldn’t hear past the buzzing in his ears. The green-clad professor nodded once and pulled out a scroll. 

“Now then, when I call your name you will come forward and I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses. Am I understood?”

Amidst the nodding heads and murmurings of “yes’s”, Yakov wished he’d paid attention when she’d introduced herself. It was too late to ask now, and thinking about her as “the green professor” felt quite rude. Through the screen of nerves, Yakov heard the clapping and cheering of the few students that came before him in alphabetical order. One in particular almost pulled him out from his sea of anxiety. It was a dark-haired boy who shocked the hall when he was placed into Gryffindor. The baffling silence was enough to strike fear in Yakov’s heart - afraid that because he couldn’t figure out what would cause that kind of reaction and what if -

And so, knowing he’d have to clamber up those four little steps, Yakov felt himself steadily become more and more tense. 

“Yakov Dzyuba.”

Wincing inside at the pronunciation no one  _ ever _ got right, Yakov forced himself to walk up the four steps, completely unaware of his surroundings at this point. The edges of his vision were dark and blurry and he fervently hoped he wouldn’t faint.

He sat on the stool and the hat was placed on his thick curls, weighing them down and covering his line of sight. Wonderful. Before he could even sigh, the sorting hat began to speak in his mind. With a soft and distinctly surprised voice too, of course. 

“A Dzyuba, here at Hogwarts? Color me surprised.”

Yakov wanted to squirm in his seat, feeling his face flush. 

“I’m not the first?”

The hat hummed, clearly sensing the timid confusion.

“Oh, no. No, that would’ve been a miss Lyudmila, in 1917.”

He nodded, feeling a bit disappointed. He’d hoped that wasn’t the case.

“But don’t despair, I’m sure there’ll be something new for you to be. Why, I can tell there are two houses you could fit into, though the differences are a bit - “ The hat paused, “- well, the houses are almost certainly considered complete opposites, let’s say.”

Yakov straightened, instantly intrigued. 

The hat laughed within his mind, “There’s the loyalty, love, and understanding of a Hufflepuff, which is what I think I sorted your ancestor into. And deep down, I can sense the sharp wit, stubborn, and clever mind of a Slytherin. What’d you say, Mr. Dzyuba? Would you like to choose?”

He couldn’t figure out if he was being humored or not but - 

At least this wasn’t at all like the sorting methods in the East. Before he could even begin to think of the house’s name, the hat bellowed out, “Well then, looks like it’ll be Slytherin!”

The first one to go to Slytherin, not just of his family but of the night too! Yakov grinned once he could see again, the house clapping loudly and a few cheering. He made his way to the table, a satisfied smile on his face, only very slightly miffed about not being able to say it for himself. But Yakov was glad the hat had known. So what if he was a bit predictable! At the table, he sat next to the prefect - a willowy brunette girl - who patted his back and muttered a quiet welcome. 

Now that he was free from his own negative and debilitating emotions, Yakov could practically feel his body melting into the wooden bench. He watched the next few first years get sorted with a small happy smile. 

“Weyo h!”

This first year was quite small compared to the rest, a few inches shorter than the few surrounding him. He made his way up the four steps, nearing tripping and catching himself just in time. A few students snickered, but it seemed more knew and remembered the anxiety of walking up those steps and kept silent. 

Still, Weyo didn’t seem to take it to heart. Laughing a bit at himself, he looked up sheepishly at the intimidating green-clad professor, who seemed amused. 

“Come on then, Mr. Gallach. Sit down.” 

He did, a bit of a blush spreading across his cheeks. When she placed the hat on his head, Yakov noticed the same thing happen - weighed down curls and covered eyes. Weyo sat up straighter, listening to the hat inside his head as it hummed aloud for all the students to hear. It was an interesting minute or two as everyone waited for his house to be announced. 

And then, the hat once again bellowed out, “Better be Slytherin!” 

It was taken off and Yakov joined his new house in clapping and tentatively cheering for their second new member. Weyo grinned as he made his way to the table, taking a seat next to him. 

“Hello,” Weyo whispered, holding out his hand, “I’m Weyo!”

Yakov shook it and smiled slightly, “I’m Yakov. Nice to meet you.” 

The second Slytherins hands were a bit clammy. His wide smile revealed a snaggletooth and a slightly off-putting gleam to the eye. Weyo had a slight accent, Yakov noticed, one he didn’t recognize. Interest piqued, Yakov wanted to ask but was aware of the deep resentment that often followed receiving that question and refrained. If Weyo ever brought it up, he would know. Until then, there were students to be sorted.

_ Weyo _

Together, the first years watched as the unsorted students waned and more first years filed into their respective tables. There was one notable boy who had scars that curled up his chin and slashed one eyebrow whose name Weyo couldn’t recall, but watched walk to the Gryffindor table. The sitting Gryffindors roared as loudly as they had for every single other sorted first year while he sat. The boy was immediately grabbed and noogied by another first year with tea-brown skin and wild black hair. Weyo swallowed a strange heavy feeling in his stomach, and looked away. 

He’d seen those boys somewhere before. 

A booming voice suddenly pushed the thought away, simultaneously forcing every head under the hall in its direction. It was the man explained to them as the Headmaster, the infamous wizard Dumbledore who was in both turns whispered and shouted about. At least, where Weyo Gallach had come from, this was true. His mother had quite a many opinions upon him and Weyo, never having quite escaped being raised by her, wrinkled his nose reflexively at his visage. He was 11 years old and knew precisely what he’d been told. 

“Children,” The headmaster intoned, voice like a scrape of gravel or the moaning of wind. “Before we would begin our feast, and so, begin our year, I would very much like to say a few words.” 

The room leaned forward. 

“Flibgibbet. Flobberworm. Follicle.” 

There was a space of silence as the people in the room attempted to digest this. 

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said, before stepping from the podium and releasing a golden, charmed owl from the tip of his wand, which flew through the whole hall in an explosion of beautiful golden sparks. The students erupted into cheers at the sight, and a big whooshing feeling ran through Weyo as he watched the bird made of magic swoop above him. He thought, maybe, that he understood something about this Dumbledore fellow, and that maybe the old wizard would understand something about him. 

_ Yakov _

The headmaster was strange, Yakov decided. Nothing he’d done so far made sense, but he wondered if that was just how this side of the world was like. Regardless, he ignored the strange speech and ate happily and heartily. He felt genuine peace for a moment before he remembered why he was really here. Then the relief didn’t last long. While he’d felt beyond happy knowing he’d been the first in his family to get into this particular house, Yakov knew there were more important things to be thinking of now - such as proving that his family still had a place in the wizarding world, even as their numbers whittled down more and more every year. 

His mother’s stark face stood out in his memory - with her out of control dark curls and beautiful brown eyes. Even in complete and utter heartbreak, her face had a grim determination to it. Yakov both loved and admired her. In this particular memory, she gripped his shoulders with both hands and knelt down so that their eyes met at the same level.

_ “My sweet boy, you know I love you.” She brushed one of his own curls from his brow, studying his face with a conflicted expression. “I don’t want to hide the truth anymore. A long time ago, our ancestors made a mistake, Yakov. And because of what we did, the universe won’t stop taking us away until it’s been righted. Do you understand?” _

He’d been so young at the time. But even back then, Yakov had noticed. Once a year, one of them would just -

Vanish.

Of course, in this place full of dazzling light, he’d forgotten. The shame of it felt hot and clustered inside him. He wondered what his mother would think, to see him indulging like this, forgetting his duty, while she ate the same meal every day and worked endlessly to ensure he had everything he needed, and sometimes things he really wanted too. He pushed his plate away and stared down at his hands, now placed neatly in his lap. 

Sometimes, Yakov wished someone could come and save him. Could take him and his mother away - hide them somewhere safe. Somewhere they would be free to live without the mistakes of their past. Wrestling back the uncomfortable lump in his throat, Yakov molded his face into the neutral but sweet expression he’d trained to maintain and looked up. The girl prefect was gathering up the first years while the other students began to walk away towards the exit. He pushed himself to listen, even when he felt like his insides were freezing and on fire at the same time. 

Their prefects led them through the halls, pointing out important aspects of the castle walls, greeting portraits, and so on. Yakov followed silently until they reached the entrance to the Slytherin rooms. The girl prefect, who’s name was Eve, taught them the significance of the password and how it must never be given to anyone but house members. She demonstrated how it was done, and they all filled in, taking their time absorbing every single detail. 

All the emerald green and gleaming silver detailing, the black leather, dark stone - 

It was beautiful, in a haunting and slightly unsettling way. 

_ weyo _

“Wow,” Weyo exclaimed, marveling at the stone structure of the Slytherin common room as students poured in from the front double doors, the crowd heaving with excitement. 

The dorm had an austere, otherworldly beauty. Striving ceilings, intricate masonwork; the six or eight marble fireplaces lining both sides of the long foyer shimmered and writhed with enchanted carvings of strange landscapes, strange beasts. Weyo was beyond taken. The place  _ smelled  _ like magic, and it was such a far cry from any kind of magic he’d had the pleasure to be in the presence of before that he couldn’t help but be anything but hopelessly and completely in love. 

It was bright and it was concealed in shadow. It was warm, it was vastly cool. It was  _ the bee's knees  _ if one could be so bold.

The boy's prefect showed the first years, in sets of four, to their own private sleeping quarters. To his astoundment, Weyo found himself roomed with Yakov, the really very nice first year who he’d sat next to at once after being sorted, too afraid to be surrounded by the older and slightly distant higher years. Yakov's kind and subdued face gave him a good feeling, and if he was to room with him, he didn’t find himself fearing any cruelty. 

There was an uneven number of first years and because of this, they were given a room to themselves, which would be magicked to hold two beds instead of the customary four. 

“But for tonight, it’ll be a room with an abundance of beds.” The boy’s prefect said, whose name was Alfred, “Once the head of house is informed, the room will fit perfectly for you two.”

Weyo nodded while Yakov murmured an affirmation, his attention already wandering. They said their good-nights, and the prefect left. The two boys were silent as they picked their beds, Weyo choosing the one to the left of the door and Yakov to the right. Their belongings were near the door, off to the side in a little nook. Weyo wondered if it was odd to think he knew instantly that Yakov was a reserved boy, from how well kept his trunk was. His had stickers of all kinds, from all the places he’d visited and some he hadn’t, with little things he’d painted on, some of them chipping because he’d forgotten a topcoat. 

Noticing he was staring, Weyo shook his head slightly and began dragging his trunk to his side, resting it against the back frame. He popped it open and searched for sleepwear and bathroom essentials. After a moment, he found them. Glancing back at Yakov, he quietly said, “I’ll just pop into the bathroom real quick, yeah? Be right back.”

His roommate nodded and sent another polite smile his way. 

What a strange boy. 


	2. The Noise in the Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sitting in their drawing room, on one of their black leather couches, the really old ones Bunica was gifted at her wedding when he heard it. There was a book in his hands, an English translation of folklore from eastern Europe and western Asia. It’d always been one of his favorites and that afternoon he’d read more than half. When Yakov heard the strange noise first time, he thought he’d been mistaken. Yakov had been so absorbed in it he’d missed the first few. But after another peaceful moment was interrupted by the strange sound, he’d lowered his book into his lap and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellloooooo 
> 
> here's chapter two...i love this fic and i love writing random shit out of the blue and i love self inserts and all that and more!! 
> 
> anyways i hope everyone enjoys lol all ten of u (4 of which are probably just me aeirygfsbdj)

_ Yakov  _

_ He was sitting in their drawing room, on one of their black leather couches, the really old ones Bunica was gifted at her wedding when he heard it. There was a book in his hands, an English translation of folklore from eastern Europe and western Asia. It’d always been one of his favorites and that afternoon he’d read more than half. When Yakov heard the strange noise first time, he thought he’d been mistaken. Yakov had been so absorbed in it he’d missed the first few. But after another peaceful moment was interrupted by the strange sound, he’d lowered his book into his lap and waited. There it was again! Hesitantly, he called out.  _

_ “Ta? Tata, what -” _

_ He’d stopped when he’d walked into the kitchen and saw - _

_ His father seated at the table, staring down at his hands with resignation. And there it was - the strange sound. It’d been his father’s foot, tapping against the marble flooring. Rapid and nervous, occasionally bumping into the leg of his chair. _

_ But worse, what he saw stopped Yakov from passing the threshold of the door. It all felt so wrong, enough that he felt a primal twist of childish fear. If his mother were here, she’d have laughed and said, “Sweet, you are a child,”. _

_ At that moment it felt shocking to know just how true it really was.  _

_ At the table, he saw his father. His father, who was a stern man, smiles rare and quite precious. A shuttered expression was not alarming, but this-  _

_ His eyes opened, blank. It was like looking at nothing, two holes where repressed emotions often fell through. Then, Yakov followed them until he saw what they were looking at. His father’s eyes were empty and they rested on his hands, resting on the table with palms facing up as if waiting for something to be dropped into them.  _

_ Hands that were transparent.  _

_ Yakov rushed forward, jerking back in shock when his father flinched. His then quickly vanishing face lifted and his eyes met Yakov’s. In them, he could see regret, pain, loss, and bizarrely, the reflection of the ancient grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the kitchen that Yakov realized then he had never paid attention to before. As soon as he saw the emotion behind those ghostly eyes, they were gone.  _

_ “Yakov, sit.”  _

_ He numbly took a seat across the table.  _

_ “There isn’t much time -” _

_ Unable to resist the opening floodgate, Yakov interrupted, crying out, “What’d mean, there’s not much time? Ta -” _

_ And his father raised his hand, signaling silence.  _

_ “Listen, Yakov, please.” _

_ With such a loaded request, all he could do was listen and hope for a decent explanation. The more he looked, the more his father seemed to fade.  _

_ “I won’t be here for much longer, not at this rate. Your mother will explain, as best as she can. Right now, I want to say goodbye.” His father swallowed, hanging his head into his hands and Yakov watched as his shoulders began to tremble. After a moment of silence, he lifted his head, “And I want you to know - “  _

_ They stared at each other. A young boy crying into the palms covering his mouth and his father across the table, who had resigned & transparent tears sliding down his dignified but weary face.  _

_ “I want you to know,” He continued, “that I’ll always love you. And that every single second I spent with you was worth it. I want you to remember that love was worth it. That you are important and you belong here, just like everyone else. No one, not even this damned curse, can take that away from you. Do you understand, Yakov? Nothing.” _

_ Yakov choked on another sob when he noticed he could see through his father. Reaching across the table, he tried to touch him, only for his fingers to slide into chilling nothingness. At this point, he stood abruptly, his chair toppling over backwards as he rushed to the outline of his father. _

_ He felt a cold presence wrap itself around him for a brief moment and then he was screaming.  _

Yakov jolted awake in a dark, stifling room. For a moment, he couldn’t differentiate between reality and his dreams, and the cry for his father followed him out into the air, along with a deep phantom ache in the center of his chest. 

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized he was in his shared bedroom in the Slytherin quarters. And in realizing this, he remembered he wasn’t alone. Scanning the room, he found Weyo, on the other side. He sighed, body still shaking from the reminder his father was gone, forever. That he would never be back. 

Their windows held a view of the lake, which allowed for a strange shade of moonlight to filter through. With that small amount of light, Yakov watched the lump of blankets the Gallach boy slept in. Then, they began twitching strangely. Now that he was paying more attention, he heard small distressed noises. Almost like the lump was whimpering. 

Throwing his own blankets back, he walked towards the bed slowly, his nightmare fueled sweat drying uncomfortably against his skin. With a trembling hand, Yakov grabbed the barely revealed pajama-clad shoulder and shook it. When the first few shakes didn’t stop the muted whimpers, he put a little more strength into the pushes. 

All at once, Weyo jerked awake, pulling in a huge gasp of air and immediately choking on it, beginning to cough. Yakov held him up as he went through the motions, eyes flitting around the room in the way Yakov himself had, just minutes ago. 

“Weyo,” Yakov’s anxiety-ridden and sleep-addled voice whispered, still holding the smaller boy up by the shoulders. “It’s alright. I think you had a nightmare. Are you okay?” 

The boy nodded, eyes wide and face a bit paler than he remembered. Sensing the subtle “please don’t leave” signals being sent his way, Yakov took a seat on the edge of the messy bed. When Weyo’s tense form relaxed slightly, he knew he’d made the right choice. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

At this, Weyo drooped and his gaze fell from Yakov’s. He waited, letting his eyes roam the room, his insides uncomfortable and tight again. For a brief moment, he wondered if he was butting in where he didn’t belong. Of course, once he thought that, it was all Yakov could do to stay seated and wait for an actual response. 

“Oh, well -” Weyo said, fingers twitching around their grip on the edge of the blankets, “yes, I’d like to, but -”

Yakov waited, and when there was nothing more, he said, “But what?” 

Weyo drooped even more, like a wilting flower. 

“I don’t think you’d believe me.” 

With this admission, Yakov paused and considered his options.

“Then why don’t I tell you about my dream first, and then you tell me about yours? If you feel like you still can’t tell me after I’ve told you, then we can both go back to sleep and never talk about this again. But only if that’s what you want.” 

And so, he waited for the smaller boy to reply. The boy in question was trembling in an all too familiar way, fingers clutched in the bedsheets. He seemed to think it through, breathing in deeply and sighing after a minute. 

“...Alright.”

Smiling hurt, but Yakov still tried. A second later, he shifted so that he was more comfortable on the rumpled bed. What would be the sensible thing to say, besides “oh yeah, I’ve just been dreaming about the disappearance of my father. Who I watched turn into nothingness, all because of a curse my entire bloodline has been afflicted with for more than ten generations. Oh, and my mother refuses to explain it to me properly. Quite pleasant, really.” Right. Not that, then. 

“I was dreaming about my father. And...his death.”

In the dark of the room, it was hard to see Weyo’s expression, but the gentle blue-green light filtering in through the windows added some visibility. Yakov had no idea what that odd look meant, thinking  _ when have I ever?  _ He decided to continue, even though he’d always struggled to put things like this into words. 

“I’d been in the drawing room, lounging on one of my grandmother’s couches and reading a book on mythology. The first few sounds -” He forced his eyes to stay somewhere off to the side of Weyo’s face, even as his hands began to nervously play with the edge of his sleepwear, “ - well, I think I didn’t notice them. I wouldn’t have stayed there if I had really heard them, I swear.”

It was at this point that he wondered if it really would be a good idea to talk about this horribly traumatizing moment when it’d only been - 

Almost three months now, actually. 

“I walked into the kitchen and there he was. Gone.” 

What else was there to say? There was no way he could tell the truth, not when he was sure his sole purpose at Hogwarts was to prove that his family, the ancient Dzyuba bloodline, still had a place in their world. Yakov thought that was it, anyways. 

A clammy hand wrapped around his thin wrist and squeezed.

“I’m sorry, Yakov.” 

With a terse smile, Yakov twisted his wrist so that his fingers wrapped around the smaller boy’s wrist, and he too, held it tightly. He waited for Weyo to say something - ask questions, probe him about what it felt like, the kinds of reactions he hated most. But he had a feeling Weyo wasn’t like that. 

“I -” Weyo bit his lip and looked away, unruly brows furrowing as he tried to form his sentence, “My dreams - I can see things.” 

After this, he stopped. Yakov blinked. Beside him, Weyo sagged. 

“I don’t know how to say it. It’s like I don’t really… dream. What I see when I sleep is real.” 

Yakov blinked again. 

“See? It’s not exactly believable.” 

Weyo sighed and pouted, muttering something like “ - doesn’t even make sense…” 

He nodded slowly and once again considered the boy.

“Well…” Yakov said, “How do you know?” 

Weyo stared at Yakov, eyes wide. “They happen.” he said, “They happen in real life.” 

Yakov considered this at length. He thought of the Oracle of Delphi, first, struck at once by Weyo’s wide eyes and dark hair, and it gave him a little zinging sense of time-travel. The stones around them, so old but still standing. It didn’t sound possible, and yet it seemed so. Yakov found himself believing this with no trouble. He said so. 

And then Weyo was the one blinking, though at a faster rate than Yakov had. It only began to feel awkward after a few seconds, when Weyo hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Yakov loosened his hold on the boy's hand and straightened, clearing his throat quietly.

“...Weyo?”

The boy shook himself, surging forward and startling Yakov enough that he nearly fell, back first, into the rumpled bedsheets. Weyo removed his hand from his wrist and grabbed him by the shoulders and grinned, a mad look in his eye. 

“That’s the first time anyone's said it! I know it, but it’s hard to believe when everyone’s like, ‘that’s not possible’ or ‘stop jokin’ round, Gallach’, and all!” 

He stared at the boy in genuine bewilderment, and Weyo seemed to realize just how startling it must have been, and right after being told of Yakov’s horrid dream. Weyo lurched backwards, moving so quickly he nearly fell off the bed and gave Yakov a heart attack. Then _he_ was the one rushing forward and grabbing Weyo’s shoulders. 

They both stared at each other, wide-eyed. And then they burst into stifled giggles, Weyo throwing his head back to laugh up into the sky and Yakov dropping his forward, laughing into the floor. 

“Merlin, Weyo, you’d think I’d have said something truly remarkable! And stop looking at me like that, I won’t fall apart at the seams if you so much as touch me! I’m quite alright, feeling much better after our strange little... discussion.”

Weyo gave him a shrewd look but after a moment, he stopped looking so concerned. Instead, his face sobered and he tilted his head to the side and said, “Do you want to talk about it though?”

In all honesty, Yakov didn’t know what he wanted. Not in the slightest. 

“I don’t know. Not right now, no.”

And Weyo nodded and they were fine. He left soon after, but this time when he went to bed he felt lighter than he had in a while. It was nice to have someone his age around. Even if he was sure he was older than all of the first years, based on his size alone. When he pulled his now cool blankets over his legs, he whispered, “Goodnight, Weyo.” 

The form across the room lifted its head and a soft voice said, “Goodnight, Yakov.”


End file.
